Page 9

The following morning brought the news I'd been waiting for—Diesel was well enough to be released. I sat on the edge of the plastic chair, hands clasped tightly in my lap to hide their trembling as Dr. Wilson explained the aftercare instructions. Freedom was a double-edged blade; I was desperate to leave the clinic's confines but terrified of what waited beyond its doors. The Serpents were still looking for me, still hunting. And now I would trade one form of confinement for another—Duke's protection, with whatever strings came attached.

"He'll need these antibiotics twice daily for ten days," Dr. Wilson instructed, handing me a small paper bag of medications. "The pain relief is once every twelve hours, but only if he seems uncomfortable. And this one—" he held up a bottle of pills "—is for inflammation. Once daily with food."

I nodded, mentally calculating the cost. My heart sank as I realized these prescriptions would demolish what little money I had left.

Dr. Wilson must have read my expression. "It's taken care of," he said quietly. "On Duke’s tab."

A mixture of relief and unease washed over me. The tally of debts I owed Duke Carson was growing by the hour. Nothing came free in this world—I'd learned that lesson the hard way.

"Someone from the Kings will pick you up in about twenty minutes," Dr. Wilson informed me, closing Diesel's chart. "Duke arranged it last night."

"Duke isn't coming himself?" The question escaped before I could stop it, revealing more than I intended.

Dr. Wilson's eyes softened. "He had some club business this morning. But he's gotten everything ready for you at the tavern."

Right on schedule, I heard a vehicle pull up outside the clinic. I peered anxiously through the blinds, half-expecting to see Jesse's familiar truck or one of the Iron Serpents' distinctive motorcycles. Instead, a large black pickup truck gleamed in the morning light.

A tall man unfolded himself from the driver's seat. He wasn't Duke—this man was leaner, with short dark hair and a rigid posture that screamed military even before he approached the clinic with precise, measured steps. The Heavy Kings cut on his back identified him as one of Duke's men.

My disappointment at Duke's absence was ridiculous and unwelcome. I pushed it away, focusing instead on gathering Diesel's things and my meager possessions—a worn backpack containing everything I now owned in the world.

The bell above the clinic door jingled, and the man entered. His eyes found me immediately, assessing rather than threatening. He nodded to Dr. Wilson with obvious respect, then turned to me.

"Mia?" His voice was calm, controlled. "I'm Tyson. Duke sent me to bring you and Diesel to the tavern."

I nodded, suddenly uncertain. This was the moment of truth—step into this man's truck and commit to whatever protection Duke offered, or walk away now, back to my broken-down car and the constant vigilance of life on the run.

One look at Diesel, still weak but wagging his tail at the prospect of leaving his cage, made the decision for me.

Tyson helped load Diesel into the truck's backseat with careful efficiency. His movements were precise, gentle, at odds with the threatening appearance of the motorcycle club cut he wore. He made sure Diesel was comfortable, arranged a blanket Dr. Wilson provided, and secured him so he wouldn't slide around during the drive.

"The antibiotics might make him nauseous," Dr. Wilson warned as we prepared to leave. "Call me if anything changes or if you have questions." He pressed a business card into my hand. "My cell is on the back. Any time, day or night."

I thanked him, genuinely grateful for his kindness. Then, with a deep breath, I climbed into Tyson's truck, clutching my backpack like a shield.

Tyson drove at exactly the speed limit, his hands at perfect ten-and-two positions on the steering wheel. The inside of his truck was immaculate—no fast-food wrappers or coffee cups, no dust on the dashboard, not even a stray hair on the seats. Compared to my disaster of a car, it felt sterile.

"Duke asked me to explain the arrangements," Tyson said after we'd driven for a few minutes in silence. "He's prepared a room for you in his building."

I tensed, misunderstanding flickering through my mind. Tyson must have noticed because he quickly clarified.

"Above the tavern," he explained, his voice remaining calm and matter-of-fact. "Duke has the main apartment upstairs, but there's a small guest room with its own bathroom. Private entrance too, if you want it."

His tone was deliberately neutral—free of judgment or assumption about the arrangement. I appreciated that, though suspicion still curled in my stomach. Years with Jesse had taught me that generosity usually came with expectations.

"Why is he doing this?" I asked, unable to contain the question any longer. "Duke doesn't know me. I can't pay him back, not anytime soon."

Tyson's eyes remained on the road. "Duke makes his own decisions. We don't question them."

"But you must have some idea," I pressed. "People don't just take in strays without a reason."

A faint smile touched Tyson's lips. "I've known Duke since we were kids. Trust me when I say he has his reasons. Taking in strays is exactly what he does." He glanced at me briefly. "But if you're worried he expects . . . payment of a certain kind, don't be. That's not who he is."

Heat flooded my cheeks at the implication. I hadn't meant to suggest that, though the thought had crossed my mind.

"I didn't mean—"

"It's a fair concern," Tyson interrupted, his voice still calm. "You don't know us. But Duke gave his word to keep you safe, and that's what he'll do. No strings attached."

As we approached King's Tavern, my anxiety spiked at the sight of several motorcycles parked neatly in a row along the building's side. They gleamed in the midday light, chrome and steel monsters that sent me spiraling back to memories of Iron Serpents territory—the constant roar of engines, the smell of gasoline and leather, the knowledge that safety was an illusion.

My breathing quickened. My palms grew slick with sweat against the seat belt's strap.

Tyson noticed my tension immediately. He slowed the truck, taking a different approach to the building. "Duke mentioned you might be uncomfortable around club activity," he said quietly. "There's another way in."

He parked as far from the bikes as possible, positioning the truck so that the building shielded us from view of the main lot. Then he guided me to a side entrance I hadn't noticed before—a plain metal door with no signage, painted the same dark red as the rest of the building's exterior.

"Private access," he explained, producing a key from his pocket. "It leads straight upstairs, bypassing the tavern completely."

The narrow staircase was dimly lit but clean, smelling faintly of wood polish and old cigarettes. It opened onto a small landing with two doors—one clearly larger and more substantial, bearing a subtle crown insignia carved into the wood, the other smaller but newly painted.

"Duke's place," Tyson said, nodding toward the larger door, "and yours." He gestured to the smaller one.

Before he could knock, the door to what would be my temporary home swung open. Duke stood in the doorway, his large frame filling the space completely. Today he wore a simple black t-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders, jeans, and heavy boots. The Heavy Kings president patch was visible on the leather cut that hung open over his shirt.

God he was gorgeous.

Stop thinking dangerous thoughts!

His blue eyes found mine immediately, then shifted to Diesel in the back of the truck. "Doc Wilson says he's doing better," he said, his deep voice sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine

I nodded, suddenly tongue-tied. Up close, Duke was even more intimidating—tall, powerfully built, with an air of quiet authority that made even Tyson seem to stand straighter in his presence.

Duke moved past me to the truck, opening the back door gently. He spoke softly to Diesel, who responded with a tired tail wag. Then, with surprising tenderness, Duke lifted the large dog effortlessly in his arms.

"Show her the room," he instructed Tyson, already carrying Diesel toward the door. "I've got him."

Tyson held the door open as Duke maneuvered Diesel inside, then gestured for me to follow. I hesitated for just a moment, clutching my backpack tighter, before stepping over the threshold.

Inside, I discovered a simple yet surprisingly comfortable room—clean and functional without being sterile. A twin bed with fresh linens stood against one wall, a small dresser against another. A chair sat in the corner beside a reading lamp, and a tiny attached bathroom gleamed with new towels and what looked like basic toiletries.

But what caught my eye—what made my throat tighten unexpectedly—was the brand-new doggy bed beside the human one. Large, plush, with raised sides that would make Diesel feel secure and protected.

Duke carefully laid Diesel on it, and the instant the dog stretched out with a contented sigh, tears welled up in my eyes. It was such a small thing—a dog bed—yet it represented a thoughtfulness I hadn't experienced in years. Someone had considered not just my needs but Diesel's too, had seen him as more than just an animal.

"It's not much," Duke said, straightening to his full height, "but it's secure."

His eyes met mine, holding my gaze with an intensity that made my heart stutter.

After Tyson left with a brief nod to Duke and a reassuring smile to me, we were alone. The room felt suddenly smaller with just the two of us standing there, Diesel's gentle snoring the only sound breaking the silence. Duke moved with deliberate steps, putting space between us as if sensing my unease. He kept his movements controlled, precise—like a large predator aware of its own power, careful not to frighten with any sudden gesture. I followed him with my eyes, hyperaware of every shift of his broad shoulders, every flex of the tattooed forearms that had so effortlessly carried my dog up the stairs.

"Let me show you how everything works," Duke said, his deep voice startlingly loud in the quiet room.

He walked to the door first, demonstrating the heavy-duty deadbolt. "This locks from the inside only," he explained, turning the mechanism so I could hear the solid thunk of metal sliding into place. "No one can enter unless you allow it. Not even me."

Something loosened in my chest at those words. In the years with Jesse, locks had been meaningless—he'd had keys to everything, had considered my privacy a joke, my possessions extensions of his own property. This simple respect for boundaries felt revolutionary.

Duke moved to the window next, showing me how the blinds worked. "These are blackout curtains," he said, pulling them closed to demonstrate. "No one can see in, even with the lights on."

He continued around the room, pointing out features I might have missed—the small refrigerator tucked in the corner ("already stocked with bottled water and some snacks"), a microwave on top of it, the clean towels and basic toiletries in the bathroom.

On the nightstand sat a simple flip phone. Duke picked it up, opened it to show me it was charged.

"Prepaid," he said, placing it back down. "For emergencies. My number's already programmed in. So are Tyson's and Thor's."

I nodded, trying to absorb all this information while simultaneously processing the reality of my situation. I was in a biker clubhouse, under the protection of the club's president, hunted by a rival gang. It felt like I'd stepped into someone else's life—some crime drama on television rather than my own reality.

Duke pointed to an intercom panel beside the door. "If you need anything, day or night, just press that button," he instructed. "It connects directly to my apartment."

His expression was serious, businesslike—lacking the softness I'd caught glimpses of at the veterinary clinic. This was Duke the MC President, establishing boundaries, not Duke the man who'd rescued Diesel and seen right through my carefully constructed walls.

I had to remind myself not to confuse the two.

"Thank you," I said quietly, my hand absently stroking Diesel's fur. "For all of this. I don't know how I'll ever—"

"Don't worry about that now," Duke interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. "Let's focus on keeping you safe first."

He crossed his arms over his chest, his stance widening slightly. His presence seemed to fill the small room, making the air feel thinner.

"There are some ground rules," he continued, his deep voice filling the small space. "For your safety and the club's."

I nodded, grateful for the clarity of expectations. Rules were familiar territory—I understood boundaries, what was allowed and what wasn't. It provided a strange comfort after weeks of chaos and uncertainty.

"Stay out of club business," Duke said flatly. "The main room downstairs is off-limits when we're holding meetings. You'll know because the red light over the door will be on." He gestured toward the window. "You can see it from here if you look down at the back entrance."

I moved to the window and peered out. Below, I could see the back lot of King's Tavern, where several motorcycles were parked in a neat row. A door led into what I assumed was the club's private area, with a small red bulb installed above it.

"The tavern gets busy Thursday through Saturday," Duke continued. "Locals mostly, but occasionally we get strangers passing through. Keep your curtains closed if you don't want to be seen."

His tone made it clear this wasn't merely a suggestion. I understood the implication—the fewer people who knew about my presence, the safer I would be.

"If you need to go out, let me know first," Duke added, watching my expression carefully. “That’s a non-negotiable.”

My spine stiffened automatically. Jesse had used similar words—demands disguised as concern, control masked as protection. I'd promised myself never again.

Duke must have read the resistance in my face because he quickly clarified, "Not because you're a prisoner," he said, his voice softening a fraction. "But because the Serpents are still looking, and I need to know you're safe."

He ran a hand through his dark hair, the first sign of anything less than perfect control I'd seen from him. "The Iron Serpents have eyes everywhere. They’re a powerful club, and that power is built on violence. If they find out you're here . . ." He left the sentence unfinished, but I understood.

If they found me, it wouldn't just be my life at risk. Duke and his club would become targets too. His protection came with mutual obligation—I needed to be careful not just for my sake but for his as well.

His genuine concern washed over me like warm water, soothing and unexpected. I nodded, accepting the constraint as reasonable rather than controlling.

"One more thing," he said as he moved toward the door. "Lena—from the tattoo shop—she'll stop by tomorrow with some clothes and things. Her idea, not mine."

A hint of a smile touched his lips, softening the hard planes of his face. "She said something about 'female necessities' that I apparently wouldn't think of."

I felt my cheeks flush, but I nodded gratefully. The thought of clean clothes that weren't from my dwindling supply was overwhelmingly appealing. I'd been washing the same three shirts and two pairs of jeans in motel sinks for weeks, hanging them to dry over shower rods and heater vents.

"Is she . . ." I hesitated, uncertain how to phrase my question. "Is she your girlfriend?"

The words came out small and uncertain. I immediately wished I could take them back.

Duke's eyebrows rose slightly, and for a second I thought I saw amusement in his eyes. "Lena? No. She works at the club's tattoo shop. She's been with us for years—not patched in, but trusted." He paused. "She's like a sister to Thor, one of my officers. You'll meet him soon."

I nodded, irrationally relieved and irritated with myself for feeling that way.

As Duke turned to leave, his hand resting on the door, he paused once more. "You can trust Lena. And Thor and Tyson. No one else knows you're here yet."

The implication was clear—my presence was being kept secret even from most of the club. A conflicting wave of gratitude and guilt washed over me. I understood he was risking something to help me, but I wasn't entirely sure what or why.

"Duke," I said before he could open the door. "Why are you doing this? Really?"

He turned back, his blue eyes intense as they locked with mine. For a long moment, he said nothing, just studied my face as if searching for something.

"I've seen what Venom and his crew do to people who cross them," he said finally, his voice pitched low. "No one deserves that. Especially not someone who'd go hungry herself to feed her dog."

The simple observation—that he'd noticed my priorities, my love for Diesel—tightened something in my chest. He'd seen me, really seen me, in a way few people ever had.

“Aside from that, if I’m honest, I hate the Serps. If they want you, I don’t want them to have you. But honestly, your safety is number one.”

“I appreciate your honesty.”

"Get some rest," he said, his hand on the doorknob. "Lock up behind me. And remember, the intercom if you need anything."

I nodded, following him to the door. As he stepped into the hallway, our eyes met one final time. Something unspoken passed between us—an acknowledgment of this strange, fragile trust we were building.

When the door closed, I turned the deadbolt immediately, listening to its satisfying click. Then I leaned my forehead against the cool wood, breathing deeply.

For better or worse, I was now under Duke Carson's protection. What that would mean—for me, for Diesel, for my future—remained to be seen.

But for the first time in months, I felt something dangerously close to hope.

Left alone with Diesel, I wandered around the small room, running my fingers over surfaces as if to prove they were real. The smooth edge of the dresser. The cool metal of the microwave. The soft blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed. After weeks of sleeping in my car, each square foot felt vast, each simple amenity a luxury I'd forgotten I could have.

For a moment, I stretched out my arms and twirled. Space. It felt good.

I touched the clean towels in the bathroom, the small plastic bottles of shampoo and soap—like a motel, but without the lingering smell of strangers and cigarettes. It wasn't much, but it was clean. It was safe. For tonight, at least, it was mine.

The refrigerator hummed in the corner, a steady, comforting sound. I opened it to find bottles of water, some cans of soda, prepackaged snacks, and a container of what looked like homemade stew. My stomach growled at the sight, but I closed the door without taking anything. Years of Jesse's scorekeeping had taught me caution—everything given could later be counted as a debt to repay.

From below, I could hear the muffled sounds of the tavern coming to life—footsteps, the occasional burst of laughter, the bass line of music starting up. The clock on the nightstand showed just past five in the evening. The day had slipped away in a blur of activity and decisions that now left me hollow with exhaustion.

I sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly overwhelmed by the tumult of recent days—from nearly losing Diesel to finding unexpected sanctuary with a man who, by every logical account, should have terrified me. My body felt leaden, my mind fuzzy with fatigue. When was the last time I'd slept more than a few hours at a stretch? Before Diesel got sick, certainly. Before I'd fled Coldwater with nothing but my dog and whatever I could fit in my car.

The mattress was soft beneath me, tempting me to just lie back and surrender to sleep. But Diesel whimpered softly from his bed on the floor, shifting uncomfortably as he tried to find a position that felt good.

Without hesitation, I slid down to the floor beside him, resting a hand on his fur, unwilling to move into the human bed while he still needed comfort.

"It's okay, buddy," I whispered, stroking his head gently. "We're both gonna be okay now."

I didn't actually believe it—couldn't afford to believe it—but saying the words aloud was its own comfort. Diesel's breathing deepened, his body relaxing under my touch. I leaned against the side of the bed, just for a moment, just until he fell completely asleep.

I can't recall the exact moment I closed my eyes, but I was startled awake sometime later by a gentle knock. The room had darkened with evening, and it took me several disoriented seconds to remember where I was. The smell of food made my stomach growl embarrassingly loud.

"Mia?" Duke's voice came through the door, deep and surprisingly gentle. "You awake?"

I scrambled to my feet, wiping drool from the corner of my mouth and attempting to smooth my tangled hair. "Just a minute," I called, my voice raspy with sleep.

I glanced in the bathroom mirror—what a mess. Dark circles shadowed my eyes, my hair stuck up oddly on one side, and a crease from the carpet marked my cheek. Nothing to be done about it now. I unbolted the door and stepped back, allowing Duke to enter.

He came in carrying a tray with two covered plates. His eyes took in my rumpled appearance and then shifted to the undisturbed bed and my position on the floor beside Diesel. One dark eyebrow rose slightly, though he made no comment.

"Thought you might be hungry," he said simply as he set the tray on the small table. "It's just burgers from downstairs, but Thor makes the best in town."

The rich aroma of grilled meat and fries filled the room, and my mouth watered embarrassingly. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten a proper meal.

"Thank you," I murmured, suddenly self-conscious about my appearance and the fact that I'd fallen asleep on the floor like a child. I crossed my arms over my chest, acutely aware of how small I must look to him with my wrinkled clothes and bare feet.

Duke moved to leave, clearly respecting my privacy, but then paused at the door. His gaze traveled from me to the perfectly made bed and back to where I'd clearly been sleeping on the floor beside Diesel.

"You should take the bed," he said, nodding toward it. "Diesel will be fine on his. You need rest too. Doctor's orders."

There was no judgment in his tone, only matter-of-fact concern. It struck me then how consistently straightforward Duke had been—no games, no hidden meanings behind his words. What a novelty after years of navigating Jesse's mood swings and double-talk.

Before I could respond, Duke added, "Is there anything else you need? The bathroom should have toiletries, but if something's missing . . ."

I shook my head, overwhelmed by that simple act of consideration. When was the last time someone had asked what I needed? When had anyone thought to bring me food without being asked? Jesse had used hunger as punishment, withholding meals for imagined slights or simply forgetting I needed to eat when he was caught up in club business.

That thoughtfulness—so starkly contrasting with the cruel neglect of my past—tightened my throat with unshed tears. A lump formed there, hot and painful, making it difficult to speak.

"Thank you," I managed to say, my voice coming out smaller and higher than I intended—a girlish tone I had desperately tried to suppress since Jesse had mocked it so mercilessly. The voice that belonged to the part of me I kept locked away, the vulnerable little girl who just wanted to be cared for.

For a moment, I caught a flicker in Duke's eyes—recognition, perhaps, or understanding—that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared. Something shifted in his expression, a softening around the edges that made my heart beat faster.

He nodded once, his expression gentle. "Get some sleep, Little One. You're safe here."

Little One.

Why had he said that?

Two simple words. How could they affect me so deeply? How could this virtual stranger see what I needed most—not just physical safety, but the reassurance of it, the permission to let my guard down, even for a few hours?

For a moment—a dangerous moment—I wondered how it might feel to call him Daddy.

I didn’t, of course.

As the door closed behind him with a gentle click, I stared at the space he had occupied, my heart betraying me with its rapid beating. The unfamiliar sensation of true safety washed over me like a warm wave. For the first time in weeks, maybe years, I allowed my shoulders to relax and my guard to drop ever so slightly.

I moved to the table and uncovered the plates Duke had brought. A huge hamburger sat on one, oozing cheese and topped with bacon. The other plate held a pile of golden fries. Next to the plates sat a chocolate milkshake, condensation beading on the outside of the glass.

My stomach clenched painfully at the sight, and I realized I was starving. I sat down and took a tentative bite of the burger. Flavors exploded on my tongue—real food, not the gas station sandwiches and granola bars I'd been subsisting on.

As I ate, I alternated bites with checking on Diesel, who continued to sleep peacefully on his new bed. His breathing was steady, his position relaxed. For the first time since he'd fallen ill, he looked comfortable.

The structured environment, the clear expectations Duke had laid out, and the simple care shown through quiet actions rather than words all reached the deepest, most vulnerable part of me—a part I'd long hidden away. I felt it stirring now, responding to the safety Duke provided, to the clear boundaries and expectations he'd established.

I finished the meal, cleaned up after myself, and finally moved to the actual bed. The sheets were cool and clean against my skin as I slipped under the covers. Before turning off the light, I glanced once more at Diesel, confirming he was still comfortable on his bed beside mine.

"Night, buddy," I whispered, reaching down to touch his fur one last time.

As sleep pulled me under, more quickly and deeply than I'd experienced in months, my last conscious thought was of Duke's words: "You're safe here."

For tonight, at least, I chose to believe him.